Wednesday, October 10, 2012

O Lord, I have made a mess.
It is for You.
Or so I assume,
given no apparent earthly purpose.

O Lord, I have made a mess.
If You inspire each devotee
according to his nature, his art,
then You must see in me a vast,
untapped potential for disarray,
for dashingly disordered disasters and missed marks.

A mellifluous messiferousness made manifest—
O Lord, I couldn’t have done it on my own.
You were helping, not just looking on,
so am I incompetent? Or blessed?

O Lord, we made a mess here, You and I,
for truly, among messes Thou Art this.
And even rubble hums with hidden life,
when You slip in and touch it with Your bliss.

So here I sit — in shambles — free from sorrow,
knowing You’ll help me clean it up tomorrow.